


On The Ropes

by Annie46fic



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, Angst, M/M, Reverse Big Bang Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 15:27:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1515512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annie46fic/pseuds/Annie46fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jared is a washed up boxer who is, literally, on the ropes; Jensen is his trainer who suddenly realizes that there are more important things than the next big fight.  Together they achieve their own brand of victory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Ropes

**Author's Note:**

> This was my third Reverse Bang 2014 entry and was written after seeing the wonderful art work without a story, so I literally begged the [artist, quickreaver](http://quickreaver.livejournal.com) to let me write something. She kindly gave me her permission and this is it! I hope that it lives up just a little to the awesome art on show!

**1966**

 

It wasn’t exactly Madison Square Gardens.

The ring was surrounded by frayed ropes of blue and red; years of heavy bodies being slammed against them had bowed them, and they had long lost their tautness. Orange light illuminated a canvas stained rusty blood and sticky with sweat; wavering spotlights leeched color from the contender’s faces, bruises standing out stark against translucent skin. In the corners two stools stood opposite one another, wood long eaten away by worms or age, the once red satin faded and ancient and in need of some tender loving care.

The audience were barely visible to the boxers within; their presence announced either by cheers and catcalls, or hisses if the bout didn’t go the way they wanted it to. There was often the sound of odds being shouted, of money changing hands. A well-timed punch or a swift jab could change the entire outcome and nothing here would ever be predictable.

After a decade and a half of this Jared was weary; there were aches in his bones and muscles where there had once been adrenaline and enthusiasm. His head hurt and his eyes stung, his knees creaking as he bent to duck yet another punch. He wanted to stand tall against the man opposite him but his shoulders slumped painfully as he moved back towards the ropes. Two minutes into the second round and already he was failing; it wasn’t what he wanted or needed but he kept fighting, his brain repeating his favored mantra of, _’not enough, not enough, not enough’_. He had to keep punching, had to keep fighting. He owed it to those who had stuck by him, who had supported him, but most of all, he owed it to himself.

He curled his toes; the boxing boots he wore a little small, they pinched but it was a tiny sting in comparison to all the other agonies that ripped through his body. If he could make it to the bell then there was hope. If he could win this one then maybe he could earn himself a shot at the title. Shit knows he had dreams, but he wasn’t foolish enough to imagine they would ever come true.

Jensen Ackles watched from the corner; he squatted down against the rusting bucket and dipped his threadbare sponge into the cooling water. He could hear the punter’s reaction to the fight so he didn’t really need to see it, but he watched anyway, teeth gritted, fingers clenched so tight that his knuckles turned white. 

****

_Jared Padalecki had been just another young hopeful when Jensen had been asked to train him; a long lanky Polish boy just arrived at Ellis Island with no skills and very little English. He’d gotten into a street fight with a muscle bound meat-head who’d called him a ‘Polack’ and, just like that, said meat-head had ended up bloodied on the wet sidewalk, Padalecki threatened with arrest until Jensen took him under his wing._

****

Jensen felt old before his time; he had seen boxing change but in places like this it remained the same; men fighting for their lives, for their livelihood. Not for these journeymen the glamour of sponsorship or newspaper coverage. There were no Mohammed Ali’s or Sonny Liston’s lurking undiscovered. Most of the men here were untrained street fighters with very little finesse, big ambitions but very little skill.

At thirty-two Jared was getting too old to really make it as a heavyweight; he was muscle bound, and scarred. His body running out of steam. Jared was tall, limber, at 6ft 5 he had an impressive reach and should, by rights, be beating his opponent to a pulp, but the youth was lithe and hungry and what he lacked in physical prowess he more than made up for in skill. He wasn’t pulling his punches, he was here to win, to progress and, like most of the fighter’s that moved through this club, he was out for fame and fortune.

****

_Back in the beginning Jared had been skinny and starving; he’d been brought into Jeff’s gym by the cops who’d picked him up. It was suggested that he might better use his energy punching bags rather than meat-heads and Jeff, after taking a look at him, agreed. Jensen was called upon to mentor the boy and it was a duty he had taken very seriously._

_Twenty-two and already jaded Jensen was never gonna make a boxer but he was a pretty good trainer; he had Jared skipping rope, running up and down the gym steps, lifting weights. Jared didn’t understand much of what was said to him but it didn’t matter. For years they communicated with hand gestures and smiles. They didn’t need to speak the same language for Jared to know how to punch, or how to defend. He had promise and Jensen had time. They were a match made in heaven or at least as close to heaven as this run down boxing club in the middle of the Bronx can be._

_Jared soon put muscle on his bones; he ate voraciously, without restraint but his constant movement stopped him from running to fat. He was fit; youth and vitality driving him. Like a lot of boys who came here he wanted to make money for his family. It read like a cliché, making dollars to send to the folks back home. Jensen had long since lost his folks but he understood the passion, and encouraged it._

**** 

Roars from the crowd made him look up again; seeing Jared sway on his feet, a splash of blood against the high bone of his cheek. The hurt and despair in those tip-tilted eyes had nothing to do with the blow and Jensen knew it. He glanced at his watch and prayed for the bell.

****

_Sometimes Jeff would click on the black and white TV in the corner and twiddle with the controls till he could get the sports; crackly images smeared across the screen, men standing tall, throwing punches, the commentator screaming encouragement with almost tangible excitement. The boxing hopefuls would all imagine it was them up there, holding belt’s above their heads, acknowledging the plaudits, the applause. Jensen would watch Jared’s face, the wonder, the hope that glowed there in the monochrome light. The thought that one day he would fight like that, bring home the proverbial bacon._

_Jensen taught Jared punches and moves but he also taught him words and sentences. Slowly their communication moved from grunts and finger movements to actual conversations. Jared was a quick learner and, while he didn’t have book smarts, he wanted so much he usually made things happen._

_In the day, he ran errands for Jeff; heaved heavy bags in the cargo bays at Ellis Island, delivered heavy newspapers or waited tables in bars. He did anything and everything just to earn enough to buy himself a pair of shorts, second hand boxing boots and socks with darned holes. He was young and innocent and determined, and he laughed a lot, dimples and bright white teeth, unbridled joy._

****

A loud clang was greeted with hisses.

Jensen pulled the stool up against the corner and helped Jared onto it. He was breathing heavily, sweat dripping down across his taut chest, his stomach quivering as he flopped back, arms stretched across the ropes. Thick blood trickled ominously down his face and Jensen reached into the bucket for his sponge, any words of comfort or encouragement he might have wiped cleanly from his tongue.

****

_When he was nineteen Jared, officially declared a heavyweight, fought his first bout in the gym’s small ring. It was just an interim tournament between the apprentices but it was important enough for Jeff to bring friends around. There was beer and cheap fries from the deli across the street, there were rickety chairs set up next to the canvas, a ref was brought in from somewhere downtown and somebody made cheap tin trophies for the winners._

_Jensen watched with some modicum of pride as Jared put his opponent on the canvas after a minute. Jared beamed into the crowd, smile specially for Jensen, pride coloring his movements. He bent down to help the boy he’d floored to his feet and Jensen was moved by something tight inside of him. Jared was a good fighter but he wasn’t mean, didn’t have a bad bone in his giant body. For most people that was a good thing, for a boxer it could mean career suicide._

****

Jared wasn’t looking at him; sad eyes stared into the middle distance as hitching breaths turned into slow, even puffs of air. Jensen could see the youth in the opposite corner. He twitched up and down on his stool, arms moving as he mouthed away to his second. There were eight more rounds to go and Jared would be lucky to see the next one out. Jensen swallowed hard and squeezed out the sponge, watching the water turn pink, seeing it swirl endlessly in the rusty bucket, Jared’s life dripping out of him drop by drop, by drop.

****

_Jared was on the tattered flyer, third bout down, the warm up act so to speak. He trained for a solid week to get into shape and Jensen watched him bolt down bacon and eggs with the same unwavering enthusiasm. Jared ran for five miles non-stop, he passed the deli and the dives on numerous occasions but he didn’t stop, just swigged at his warming water, keeping himself hydrated. He bench pressed heavy weights and punched the old leather bag. He sweated and stank, hair constantly greasy, muscles forever sore._

_In the end it was worth it though; he took the bout on a points decision and, next time, he moved up the tattered flyer to second, one move away from a shot at something, maybe in the mix for a new pair of shorts and some socks without holes, new laces for his boots and some sticky candy just for treats._

_Jeff watched him closely; told his friends to lay down their dollars. Thick manila envelopes on their way to Poland full of crinkly old notes and American cigarettes. Jared was on his way, a fresh new challenger, fit and hungry in all the right ways._

****

A minute perhaps before the bell and Jensen couldn’t bear it a moment longer. He slapped the sponge back into the bucket and reached out his fingers instead. Hard and callused he wrapped them quick around Jared’s bicep, tips digging in. He wanted to say a million and one things, wanted to let all the words he had kept inside of him out, but instead he just gripped flesh that gave easily, everything he wanted to say poured out of him in that one single moment.

****

_He’d been right really; right about Jared._

_Fierce as he might look, all long limbs and bulging muscles he was as gentle as a stupid lamb. He loved kids and spent hours with them in the streets, lifting them onto his shoulders and carrying them up high. Letting them wear his precious gloves, pretending to fall every time they hit him on the chin. He loved animals too, big hands cradling the new born pups that whelped in the gym’s basement, tucking their tiny furry bodies in his coat pocket, feeding them bacon under the table, Jensen’s eye rolls totally ignored._

_He won his next bout with a knockout in the fifth; got a real trophy and everything, money changing hands, newspaper hacks starting to ask how they spelled his last name. Stupid nicknames like Moose and Big Foot littered their pieces and Jensen would avoid those parts when he read the reports to Jared just to see the pride on that familiar face._

_Jensen had no family to speak of and Jared’s might as well be millions of miles away so all they really had now was each other. Stockings full of silly things at Christmas, sleeping in the shabby rooms above the gym on battered mattresses, scrubby blankets barely keeping them warm. Sipping sodas on the roof while watching the stars flicker, bright comets of light so far away from them but something to wish upon, to want._

****

It was like time stood still; the hum of the crowd thrummed through him and he wished it could stay like this forever, wished he never had to send Jared back into that ring. He dug his fingers in harder, tighter and he heard Jared make a small, hurt sound. Those distant eyes shone brighter now and Jensen knew, without doubt, that it was time; it was time to put a halt to all of this.

****

_Jared’s first shot was against a young up and comer like himself; ebony skin and hard black eyes. He was hungry and mean, stood like a king among men. All mouth, and no fear of anything. Jared smiled at him when they touched gloves, _’toed the line’_. There were no smiles in return just a sneer, slow and steady, lip raised. In the ring there was no mercy shown either, no smiles, just a well-placed fist and Jared flat out on the canvas._

_He bounced back and won by the smallest of mercies; Jensen knew that it had been fortune favoring the brave this time but next time . . . next time there would be no coming back. Jared was happy with his belt, with promoters wanting to sign him up, with promises of his next fight shown on blurry screens across Southern America._

_Two more fights against hungrier men and, despite the running and the punching of leather Jared lost both of them on points. He kept smiling but it was clear that he wasn’t made to be a contender. Bigger, better men were coming through, poor fighters from the ghettos who were fired up by hunger and poverty. Jeff shook his head and clicked his tongue but he kept Jared on his books, kept Jensen on as his trainer, his ‘wingman’. Jared still fought. He fought on through the sting and ache of age, fought on to earn the most meagre of purses, no more trophies just an envelope of grubby money and a broken left hand._

****

Jared was up against the ropes now; at the end of his tether, in the _twilight_ of his career. Jensen knew this, had known this for years really but he hadn’t wanted to hurt him, hadn’t wanted to stop because to stop meant their partnership was, effectively, over.

He had money but he still slept above the gym, scrounged sandwiches from the deli, and ate cold fries after even colder fights. He ran the battered old Chevy he had into the ground, drove from place to place, from ring to ring until all they had left were these wrecked old venues and the stink of sweaty money in the crowd.

The bell rang and Jared lurched forward; Jensen kept his fingers dug tight into flesh, holding on tight, the emotions surging through him fresh and new, like a discovery, an epiphany. All those girls that never meant jack shit, all those late night fumbles which left him cold and confused. Men like him didn’t admit to feelings easily just clung on tight to what they had, just like he clung on tight now, clung on tight to Jared.

It was always the two of them; strapping on the leather gloves, doing up the laces, helping patch up afterwards, the scent of ointment and lint. Jared smiled at everyone but it was at him he smiled the widest. It had to mean something, it had to.

The bell rang again; sharp against the shrill hum of the crowds. There was heckling now, ugly words screamed out, the referee standing in the center of the arena tapping at his watch. Jensen felt the tremor that ran through Jared’s arm, thick muscle moving beneath his hand. Jared tensed for a moment and then he seemed to snap out of it, eyes’ fluttering downwards to stare at Jensen’s clenching fingers and then up again to stare at his opponent jogging up and down in the ring. 

“I have to . . . ,” he said, softly, accent still strong after near twenty years and Jensen could still see that skinny kid wrapped up in all that muscle and sinew.

“No.” Jensen had money, he had hopes and plans but none of them meant shit without Jared. “You don’t.”

Jared lifted his hand and brushed it across the blood that thickened on his face; he stared at his gloved hands as if he hadn’t realized he was hurt, stared at the red spots that flecked his shorts, and the white tips of his boots. 

“You don’t need to do this.” Jensen held the grubby grey towel in his hand, intentions as clear as crystal now. “Neither of us do.”

The ref was walking over; the crowd moving, hostile like sharks in the water. The young man opposite was mouthing off louder, calling Jared all sorts of fucked-up names, mocking and taunting, thinking one word might be mightier than any punch he might lay on the man before him.

There wouldn’t be any romantic gestures because that was lame; no kisses like an old time movie, no sweeping kisses like the black and white movies he sometimes watched after sports. Happy endings with white lace and promises didn’t happen for guys like them but they were up against the ropes now and they could bounce back or fall.

Jared’s head inclined slightly; the briefest of nods, an affirmative. Jensen smiled then and lifting his arm he tossed the grey towel into the ring, one last gesture, a grey flag instead of the symbolic white one. Catcalls and bellowed abuse soaring loud above the filmy orange light, faces just visible now, open maws and angry eyes.

Jensen hauled Jared up to his full height and held his right hand aloft. It was a small victory, a sham, but it meant that they were both winners today, victorious in a way that no belt or trophy could convey. If he were able he would have liked to lift Jared shoulder high and carry him from the ring but instead he kept his fingers on Jared’s arm, his trainer’s equivalent of a kiss. What they had might not have words to describe it because there were no words. They had grown together, learned together, stuck to each other like glue. For most this could be construed as deep affection and for others simply love.

***

The gloves were off now and Jared had bounced against the ropes but they were still fighting, and victory, while in their tentative grasp, might take more than one straight fight.

End


End file.
